


To the Manner Born

by derangedfangirl



Series: Dust [2]
Category: Tombstone (1993)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derangedfangirl/pseuds/derangedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The voice is husky and slightly muted, wry and touched with some indefinable roughness, like silk that’s been frayed around the edges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Manner Born

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit is, as always, appreciated!

Wyatt shouldn’t be here.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and glares at the soft glint of metal numbers on the door before him without really seeing them.  He tips his hat down lower and hunches his shoulders as a woman in a violently scarlet dress passes.

He _really_ shouldn’t be here.

The door is flimsy- nowhere near thick enough to eradicate the muffled clink of Doc’s cup as he pours himself a glass of something- whiskey, probably, maybe bourbon, if he managed to get his hands on it. Wyatt’s mouth hardens into a thin, uncompromising gash. Yes, Doc is probably languishing in that goddamn overstuffed chair like the Queen herself, sipping on his whiskey like there’s not a fucking thing wrong in the world. He amuses himself (or procrastinates, really), by focusing on the mental image of Holliday, resplendent in jewels, brocade, ermine... ladies’ bloomers. A half-muttered curse, the rustle of fabric on fabric- inside, he’d bet that Doc is stripping off his holster and loosening his cravat, running a hand through his hair, mussing it so it falls in his eyes, sticking to his perpetually damp forehead.

Wyatt should just walk away.

He doesn’t move.

And it’s not because he wants an explanation. Nothing to explain, even though he's owed one, since they're supposed to be friends-

His throat tightens a little. No point in hangin’ fire, he figures.

Raises his fist. Knocks softly. The rhythm is familiar.

And silence. Nothing.

He can feel a muscle jumping in his jaw. _‘Damn you, Doc…’_

Wyatt’s knuckles connect again, but sharply this time, enough annoyed, righteous anger to rattle the hinges.

Another beat passes, and he opens his mouth, preparing to _force_ Doc to acknowledge him-

“Hush, now, I’m coming…”

The voice is husky and slightly muted, wry and touched with some indefinable roughness, like silk that’s been frayed around the edges.  Pure Doc, unmistakable.

He swallows, trying to quell the slick, sick feeling in his stomach. Listens as the footsteps grow closer and more distinct, imagines he can maybe even hear him breathe, Doc's death rattle, on the other side of the door, and he wonders with some misplaced sentimentality if they might not be staring at each other right now, locking eyes, were it not for the bit of wood separating them. Wyatt doesn’t inhale-

The door is unlocked with a ‘snick’, but Doc doesn’t open it.  So before Wyatt can talk himself out of it, he's in motion again, with a lick and a promise, all but throwing himself into the room, ignoring the chair that clatters over as he bumps into it and even what Doc’s reaction will be, because that doesn’t matter, dammit, and if he repeats it enough times it will be true.

He stops suddenly, because somehow, after all this mulling over in his head, he hadn’t realized that Doc would be _here_ , in the flesh. He’s at sea, jaw dropping open like he’s tryin’ to catch flies, and for the life of him, he cannot remember what it was he meant to say. He searches Doc’s face for some sign of emotion, and maybe Wyatt’s own expression is accusing, but he just looks… tired. Raw, maybe. 

He's leaning against the desk, lanky and boneless in his oddly elegant sprawl, but he's letting it take too much of his weight, propping himself up, and it seems almost shameful to be lookin' at Doc when he's this sick, to be barging in on him.

Doc almost seems disappointed by the anticlimax.  He wasn't expecting Wyatt’s... docility.  Frankly, neither was Wyatt.  They stare at one another for a long minute.

Then Doc's eyes go inky and he throws back his drink, pins Wyatt like a bug under glass with those dispassionate ice-chip eyes, and he _smiles_ \- there’s something about that smile, something that makes Wyatt's stomach roil, because for a moment he’s not looking at the man he calls his friend, he’s looking at the reckless, manic, out of control myth that is John Henry Holliday. He drops his eyes, searching the floor for an answer that isn’t there.

“Now what could be so _urgent_ as to require such barbaric treatment of my poor door?”

Doc’s molasses-slow cadence, that touch of caustic wit raises Wyatt’s hackles instantly, and he jerks his chin back up, preparing to rip into Doc, with his damned silver cup flashing about his hand, but suddenly there’s a spark of something in that marble-statue face, of Doc’s perpetual contradiction. That damnable caution, something defensive and resigned and excited and afeared all in one. Something that reminds him that this man can’t yet be 30 years old. Doc would probably shoot him if he knew Wyatt's protective streak sometimes extends to him as much as Morgan. 

He takes off his hat, aiming for that unflappable casualness Doc’s so adept at, and, just to be contrary, walks toward the prickly fellow near the door, brushing the man’s knee with his coat. Some surprise registers in Doc’s face as the hat lands just next to him, and Wyatt feels the hard line of his mouth relax as he steps back, looking him square in the face.

 _‘You can’t rile me, Doc. I’m not goin’ anywhere. Not that easy to get rid of.’_

“I ain’t here for a fight, Doc.”

“Damn.” Doc’s lips twist bitterly, but it doesn’t effect his perfect deadpan.

Wyatt smiles; this is the Doc he’s used to. The one he knows how to react to. He looks pointedly at the ceiling, and forgets, just for a moment, his fury.

“How stupid do you think I am?” he laughs, “You’d best me dead drunk with one hand tied behind your back.” He’s not really joking. With a gun or probably even a knife, Holliday is too damn quick for him, and they both know it. The only way Wyatt could take him would be a combination of surprise and brute force-

“I’m unarmed.” comes the reply, quick as a shot. Wyatt blinks. It hits him, abruptly, that Doc's stopped playing, that he wants -legitimately _wants_ \- Wyatt to hit him, hurt him, destroy whatever this is that keeps Doc honest as he is, wants Wyatt to just go on and mete out his punishment whatever it might be, because for Doc the waiting's always a thousand times worse than the fight.  A little like dyin', maybe.

Wyatt tries hard not to stare because he can feel a pity the man would never forgive him for is settling on his features before he can stop it.

He's not used to analyzing people this way. Being this attuned.

Then, suddenly, Doc is there, almost nose to nose with him, and he has absolutely no idea how that happened, and he can smell the bourbon (it’s definitely bourbon) on his breath, tries to step back but the bed’s in the way-

“Then what, pray tell, _are_ you here for? Surely you’ve already said everything you needed to say.” he sneers, bestowing upon Wyatt that glacial smile again, his lips stretched too tight against his teeth, mirthless and insincere and awful.

It’s meant to drive Wyatt off.

It won’t work.

He inhales deeply and focuses on the faded wallpaper just above Doc's right shoulder for too long, steadying himself. Swallows tightly, chancing another glance at the too-thin face- his head is cocked to one side, detached and evaluative, and for a second the man bears a damn striking resemblance to a bird of prey.

It feels like he’s been caught naked.

Altogether too much- he brushes past the question, determined to maintain order.

“Where’s Kate?” his voice comes out steady, and he’s a little too proud of that-

Doc’s hand flutters about in a courtly gesture, and that says everything that needs to be said about the man, really.

“Procuring herself a shiny new meal ticket, I would presume.”

He’s trying too hard to seem bitter about it. The corners of Wyatt’s mouth quirk up, despite everything, because Doc and Kate are as predictably volatile as always, and somehow there's a stability to that instability.  Doc gropes behind him for his bourbon without once taking his focus from Wyatt.

Then his head is tipped back, eyes drifting closed for half a moment in unadorned pleasure, the long, vulnerable column of his throat exposed in such a rebellious display of trust that it stops his breath. Clever fingers are slung loosely around the neck of the bottle and he finally lowers it, but now there’s something else to transfix him- a drop, just a drop, clings to that full bottom lip, the tip of his dusky pink tongue darting out to meet it, so quick he almost misses it.

He stares at that strangely delicate, well-formed mouth, almost feminine, almost wanton in the way the lips part ever so slightly in the middle- distracted to the point of nearly missing that wicked glint in the half-hooded eyes that glance down coyly before returning to his, and he’s sweeping that tongue across his lips again, leaving a sheen of moistness that catches the light in a way he shouldn’t be noticing, which is also when he realizes that the bastard is flirting with him, teasing him, seeing right through him-

Maybe shaking his head physically will clear it, so he tries, face aflame, clearing the embarrassment out of his throat as he recalls that he really shouldn’t be here. He resolves to rectify that mistake immediately, and shoulders past Doc, but he’s not quick enough to miss the way his shoulders are beginning to shake. He reaches for the door latch just as a full throated laugh works its way out of the skinny chest.

Freezes.

Squeezes his eyes shut.

 _‘Goddamn you, you transparent bastard-'_

“Wyatt, I’d never pegged you for a fool.” he’d almost believe the man was genuinely heartbroken were it not for the suppressed amusement weaved through his voice like embroidery thread. Wyatt’s hand tightens on the handle.

“You think I betrayed you.”

Mock understanding, condescension badly disguised by honeyed tones, and Wyatt’s relieved to have the excuse, even as his righteous fury boils over again, because this is Doc’s way of letting him off the hook, taking the plunge because he knows Wyatt can’t. He spins around, his fists clenched, and it’s gratifying to be physically imposing compared to Doc, as the other man draws back minutely, flinching, unconscious. “You did betray me.” he snarls.

Doc, cocky and reckless, turns his back to Wyatt, casually arranging his liquor on the nightstand, and this really riles him; his hands suddenly itch to wrap around his fool shoulders and shake him- because he’s gotten Wyatt to deviate from the script so carefully plotted in his head, the one in which Wyatt holds all of the cards seeing as he’s the one who’s been wronged, but Doc’s euchred him, again, and it’s all gone to hell.

He turns back to Wyatt with slow deliberateness, and looks him square in the eye.

“I saved your life.”

It’s a simple statement, no pretension. Wyatt grinds his teeth because how _dare_ he look at him this way, like an innocent martyr, as though it’s Wyatt who should apologize, and how _dare_ he tell such bold fucking lies right to Wyatt’s face- his own heartbeat thunders in his ears, somewhere in the distance Doc laughs that reckless, chaotic laugh, and something inside him twinges when it mutates into a pneumatic cough halfway through.

“Bullshit, Doc!” his voice is on a knife’s edge, tightly reigned, just above a ragged whisper, “You lied to me. You looked me right in the eye and you _lied_ to me. Used me, used my… my _badge_ -” he spits the word, doesn’t care about control now, stalking forward “-to make it legal, come to find out the worst thing that poor bastard did in Dodge City was make a bet he couldn’t pay!”

The void of silence his voice has left is oppressive.  Doc just looks at him with that expression he doesn’t understand.

“You are a fool, Wyatt Earp,” Doc murmurs, “the biggest I’ve ever met.”

Even Wyatt isn’t sure what he says in response, if it’s even a word, or just an unformed, savage growl, and he puts his back to Doc, because looking at him just now is unbearable.

“He was here to kill you, Wyatt.”

Wyatt doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe or blink, and the sound of his voice, ragged like this, hurts-

“You hanged his brother; he wanted revenge-”

Something in him tries to unfurl, but he won’t let it because Doc’s just covering his own hide, and he won’t be taken in by the machinations of a flannel mouthed liar again just because it’s easier-

“He’d been shooting his mouth off about it round the faro table for days.”

The flash of half-formed memory; the old bartender giving him an odd look, a vague warning he hadn’t taken seriously at the time-

“I knew you wouldn’t do anything about it, you’re too-” he pauses, and for once that silver tongue doesn’t seem to be forthcoming with the perfect words, “ _noble_ to take care of a man like that. Protect your damn self. So I did it for you.”

The words hang in the air like dust motes, and it’s just not possible that he could’ve so misread this thing. He turns back toward Doc just enough to see his face.

“And that money he owed you?” he asks, gentle, inviting the truth, “That didn’t play into your equation at all?”

Revulsion mars those fine features.

Holliday has never looked at him this way before.

“Dead men _don’t pay debts_.” his enunciation is slow and mocking, and finally Wyatt puts together all the missing pieces, spinning to face Doc fully, remorseful words stumbling over each other in an attempt to escape his mouth, but it’s too late- he has turned away, forehead resting against the glass of the window, arms closed around himself in unconscious defensiveness.

“Get the fuck out, Wyatt.”

For once in his life, Wyatt turns tail and runs.


End file.
